Your Mind is Your Worst Enemy
by aelitahoppercl
Summary: John is an army doctor who lost his best friend to an overdose eleven years ago. Not able to cope with the pain, his mind started to create projections of his dead friend and together they solve the most extraordinary cases. But how long will it take for someone to notice that something is wrong?
1. Just One More Time

**Hello people! This is my second fic and I hope you enjoy it. This is a AU version of the series in which John and Sherlock know each other since they were kids. Sorry for any mistakes, English is not my native language. Anyway, don't forget to review, comment and anything else you want to. **

**Disclaimer: Sherlock isn't mine (yet), nor John, nor Mycroft, nor Mrs. Hudson, nor any other character. They all belong to the great ACD, Moffat, Gatiss and BBC.**

_**"Make sure your worst enemy is not living between your own two ears." Laird Hamilton**_

_He could hear gunshots. A bullet grazed his left ear, the small bruise itching more than the skinless knee and the bullet wound. John was kneeled behind a huge boulder, missiles passing over his head. He was having quite the problem with his gun, the trigger was stuck and with his foot in a pretty bad shape, he was in immediate danger, unless he left his position as many of his comrades and sought for a hiding place. This thought crossed his mind several times in the last few minutes, but every time he'd look to see his friend throwing back the bombs to keep everyone else safe, he would reunite all the forces he believed he didn't have any longer and join him, fighting till the end. _

_That was until he saw Sebastian get shot on the stomach, the man grasping his torso with bloody hands. John shouted his name, trying to get there in time to save him, though it was too late. The moment he realized that, he heard a bang, and the last thing he remembered was everything turning black…_

* * *

><p>John woke up with a startle, sweat running down his face. The image of Sebastian being murdered in front of him still as clear as water. He punched the pillow over and over again, the pain slipping away every time he'd hit the soft white bolster. When he felt his arms couldn't hold any more effort, he collapsed on the bed, digging his head deep in the pillow.<p>

"_Feeling better?"_

John grumbled and turned to face the wall. "Yes, thanks for your concern."

"_War?"_

"Yes."

"_Sebastian?" _

"Once again, yes." Emphasizing the word 'yes', John spun around on the bed for a second time to face the man sat on the wooden chair in front of his desk. "What do you want? All I wish is to have a good night of sleep, no worries and no fucking nightmares! What the hell could you possibly need this time?" John started shouting and only after he watched the dark silhouette moving closer to him he stopped.

"_Remember last time you shout and someone had to invade your flat to calm you down?"_

Listening to the other man whispering, the blonde began to whisper too. "Yeah, what about it?"

"_Do you want that to happen again? Because last time, you were almost sent to a madhouse and I had to go with you an-"_

"I got it, I got it! Just… shut up." John rubbed his hair and stretched his legs. He pulled the covers to the end of the bed and put his feet on the floor. Feeling it super cold, he leaned to the front, trying to find his slippers. "Where did you hide them?" John looked up to tackle the slim figure in front of him when he noticed them at the door of the bathroom. He rose from his spot and headed to the toilet.

"_I believe you owe me an apology?"_

John gave a laugh as a response, lowering to grab the slippers. "That would be quite ridiculous, don't you agree?" With the slippers on, he moved to the annex that was called kitchen. The first time he got to see the installations, his mouth fell to the ground. He couldn't live there, even if temporary, but with the miserable army pension he received, there was nothing to be done.

"_Why so? If you already talk to me, I think you could apologise either."_

"It's simply not happening. In the end, I would be saying sorry to myself." John started to make his breakfast. He opened the drawers, looking for tea. He found a box of camomile. 'I've gotta go shopping.' He then proceeded to make some toasts with two-days-old bread. The familiar smell reached his nose, a smile plastered on his face.

"_If you don't want to speak to me, why don't you take the pills?" _John's smile disappeared. Both men stayed in silence for a couple of minutes, not saying a word. _"The toasts are getting burnt, John". _The doctor jolted and pressed the button to make the toasts jump of the toaster.

"Damn." He threw the burnt bread to the garbage and searched for any food left. He found none. "I'm going to Starbucks. Coming?"

* * *

><p>After a delicious white chocolate cookie and a mocha, John took a walk on Regent's Park. It was practically empty, since it was seven o'clock of a Saturday morning. He had everything to be happy in that moment, if he forgot about the cane: he was enjoying the environment, his stomach wasn't complaining anymore and everything was quiet. Well, that was the problem, it was too quiet. He looked at his left to see his friend right next to him, hands in the coat pockets and head down. That was unusual of him. John was just about to ask him what was going on when he heard someone calling out his name.<p>

"John! John Watson!" He turned around and saw a small man approaching him.

"_He looks familiar, doesn't he?" _The tall man pinched his chin, scanning the other's face.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford." The man pointed at his chest with his right hand, the left one carrying a case filled with medical documents.

"_Oh! That Mike!"_

"We were at Bart's together." He extended his hand and John accepted it, apologizing immediately.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello, hi."

"_You really need to practice your English, John."_

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!"

"_Pff, fat? Last time I saw you, you could rip your shirt apart with your abs when you'd inhale. Every single girl was after you, no idea why." _John gave his tall friend a stern look and replied to Mike.

"No, no."

"_Saying it twice won't change anything, John."_

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

"_Seriously? You stated the obvious."_

John shrugged, ignoring his friend. "I got shot."

The men walked to a park bench, stopping by a coffee shop to get a hot beverage. Mike sat on the end of the bench, John on his right and the other one on John's right also.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?"

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things, like we used to be."

The tall man leaned forwards, placing his right elbow on his knees. _"What's your definition of 'bright'?"_

"God, I hate them." John laugh and Mike gave him a wide smile.

"_I don't even know them and hate them too, if anyone's interested."_

"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"I'm not the John Watson." The blonde man started to clench and unclench his left hand. He could feel it shaking once again. It seems his therapist wasn't making the effect she should have been. Perhaps he had to complain about it….

"Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

"I don't know… Get a flatshare or something…"

"_No! No way! Tell him, John! Don't you dare ignore me!"_

"Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

"_John!" _Mike observed his old friend suddenly faced the opposite direction and started protesting as if someone else was right there, close to them. Genuine concern surfaced and became quite visible on his face. He put a hand on John's shoulders and shook him softly, calling his name. It took a couple of minutes to bring him back to reality.

"You ok, John? What was that all about?" Good old Mike and his need to take care pf everyone else.

"Oh, sorry about that. I'm feeling a bit tense now, nothing too much."

"_Did you hear anything I said when I taught you how to lie properly?"_

"My therapist says it's common to most people who have PTSD to do…" John wagged his arms in the air. "… this."

"_He's not that dumb, John. He'll notice through the lie sooner or later."_

"Shut up."

"Sorry?"

"See? PTSD." He put his index finger on his temple and hit his head three times.

"Oh! I never heard that."

"_He's getting suspicious. Cut the grass."_ The tall man began to slide way from the two men still on the bench. John eyed him and indicated him to stay exactly where he was, not that he would do it whenever John begged him or not. Knowing that his short friend didn't know how to get off that compelling situation, he whispered on his ear what to do. He received an inconspicuous nod and stood back, ready to leave.

"Oh, look at the time, it's so late already! Time to go! Nice to see you, Mike, I'll call you to have a drink some time!" John stood up and began to run after the silhouette in front of him. They ran all over London until they reached John's flat. Both man leaned against the wall and started laughing, getting harder and harder to breath. "That was the most ridiculous thing we've ever done."

"_It was fun, yes, but not the craziest one. Remember the day after the prom?" _The duo began to laugh once more, this time not so long.

"I can still vaguely recall I was being taken to a hospital. After that, I must have blacked out."

"_Yes, you did. I had to explain your parents what happened. They were so mad at me that I actually thought they were going to murder me right there."_

"First they would have to go through this." John pointed at himself with his thumbs, and swung around the room, showing off in front of his friend.

"_It wasn't that hard at the time. You were almost as big as that hobbit thing of the book you forced me to read. Not that it's harder now, you just grew up three inches since then." _

Noticing the smug face, John withered and gave a slap on the younger man's head, making him let out a small cry. "Careful, you're getting in dangerous territory. I'm not small, I'm well-knit." The blonde's arms went up and down along his body. The other one ignored him and catch a glimpse of a newspaper under thousands of papers. He dragged out the tabloid and perused out loud the main news.

"_Suicide cults. The body of Beth Davenport, minister of Transports was found late last night in a building on the outskirts of London. Preliminary investigation suggests suicide. The police confirm this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Mr. Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore, and so on, so on… They are obviously wrong." He discarded the paper and slump on the small couch. "We could solve it, you know? I'd tell you what I deduce and you would tell the police officers. Of course, if there was something different on the new crime scene it would be a lot eas-"_

"Oi? What do you mean with 'we'? We are certainly not going to interfere with the investigation. And how the hell could you know there's a new crime scene?"

"_During our way home, we ran through Brixton. I saw the DI who's investigating this murder. I can tell it was him because of the photo on the newspaper."_

"Murder? It says those were suicides."

"_I repeat: they are wrong. Can't you see?" The man hoisted from the couch and bent down until he was on the same level as John. "If we go there, we'll solve the case! And there's more! I'll be able to finally have something to keep my mind busy and you'll get the adrenaline you are in desperate need."_

"We won't go there! I just came back from the war. All I need is peace and quiet." John sat where his friend was previously and looked straight in the other's eyes. Knowing him, he was not going to give up that easily.

"_I promise I won't be rude to any of them."_

"I'm the only one who can hear you, did you forget it?"

"_I promise I won't be rude to you."_

"When that day comes, it'll be the apocalypse."

"_That doesn't make any sense. Anyway, please? I really need this. Just one more time." _He was now pleading. He never pleads. Well, the real him would never do such thing, but this is not the real one. This is a projection created by his mind to help him to shut the pain away after his best friend's death. This was his way to make pain a bit at ease to deal with. At least, according to his therapist. She advised him to take the pills to bring an end to those images, but he didn't have the courage to do it. Taking the pills would mean kill his friend, and to see Sherlock Holmes disappearing from his life twice was too much to handle.


	2. The Game is On!

**Hello! Here's a new chapter! Please forgive any mistakes. Sherlock talks too fast for me to understand (and actually listen...) every single word he says, so you'll notice that perhaps there are things that make no sense AT ALL (please notify me if you find any mistake for me to rectify it), and there are some parts of his dialogue that I didn't include 'cause I had no idea how to write up some of the words. Shame on me...  
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**Anyway, thanks to everyone who's following the story and also reviewed! I started jumping all over my house. I was so happy! So, if you wish my mum to tell me I'm going nuts _again_, don't forget to review, comment, follow and anything else you want!**

**Disclaimer: It's sad, but true. Sherlock's not mine... **

**Enjoy!**

"_That doesn't make any sense. Anyway, please? I really need this. Just one more time."_

"Even if we go there, how do you expect us to get close to the body? There's a bunch of cops in there. I can't just say 'Hello everyone! Oh please, don't mind us, we're just checking the corpse, not a big deal." John paced around the flat, his arms flying everywhere. His hair was spiked on the weirdest places and Sherlock found it hard not to laugh at his state. "'Who are you?', they'll ask, 'Oh just an army doctor recently home after a tour in Afghanistan! And the best of all, it's my imaginary friend who's solving your case!'".

"_You better not mention the last part. The rest seems perfect."_

"Wha- You! I, I… God!" John began to choke on his own words, incapable of understanding what was crossing Sherlock's mind. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to pull his hair again while buffing every now and then. He stared at his friend, whose lower lip protruded in a dumpish pout. "No, please, don't do that." The lips started to tremble very slightly. "Sherlock… You look like a baby."

"_We could give it a try… If they don't let us in, then we come home."_

John huffed and pinched his nose. That man was persistent. "Where did you say the crime scene was?"

"_Brixton."_ The blonde thought for a few minutes until he made a statement.

"First and last case."

Sherlock smiled and jumped of excitement. _"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, it's Christmas!" _He grabbed his long Belstaff coat from the chair and headed to the main door. _"Years of boredom and mundane life and now four serial 'suicides'!" _The happy-go-lucky man made quotes with his fingers and turned to see John deep absorbed with his brows frowning. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea. _"You've seen lots of injuries, violent deaths…" _Sherlock donned his black leather gloves on his hands.

"Well, yes."

"_A bit of trouble too."_

"You already know that. Why are you asking?" John rose from the bed and got closer to Sherlock. Both man observed each other eyes until the taller one broke the silence.

"_Are you sure you wanna see some more?"_

"No, God yes." The duo ran out of the flat, John a little behind because of the limp. Sherlock opened the door and allowed the doctor to pass first to hail a cab. There was no point in trying himself, what sort of cabbie could possibly see a phantom? A medium cabbie? That would be interesting and incredibly bogus, he thought. The trip didn't last long, which was surprising. Almost no traffic must have helped. They arrived at the crime scene and John began to shiver. Not because of the cold, but because of what was going to happen in a few minutes. How would he get in the building? How would he convince the police to let him in? All those questions and no answer. They kept walking until they were twenty feet away from the yellow tape. "Ok, now how do you expect me to get in there?" John whispered. Even if nobody could hear him, the best was not to risk. People starting to wonder why he was speaking alone wasn't very good.

"_I'm thinking."_

"Hurry, there's someone coming."

"_Listen John, my mind is not a movie. I can't make it go on slow-motion or high speed. It works like a hard drive. Sometimes, it has bugs." _Seeing a woman getting closer and closer to them, John demanded Sherlock to disappear. That was one of the nice things of having a spectrum friend. Whenever he needed to focus (or was mad at the brunet), he could make him vanish, for a short amount of time. Not that he wanted it to last too long.

"Who are you? You can't be here, this is a crime scene." The woman had brown curly hair, her skin was dark. She was dressed with a medium size skirt and a gabardine buttoned up to the top. She was clearly a policewoman.

"Yeah, hmm… That's a good question, a great question indeed, what am I doing here?" John clapped his hands once and faced away from the female. Her scrutinizing was a mix of scepticism and boredom, very similar to a certain person he knew. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes?..."

"If I tell you I'm here because I want to examine the dead body, would you let me in?"

The sergeant stood quiet on her heels, giving no response. If it weren't for her wide eyes, John wouldn't be sure she had, in effect, heard him. She pulled herself right again and folded her arms across the chest. "Is this a joke?"

"Oh, believe me, it isn't."

This was a first for her. Although in regular situations she would just lead the annoying news' people and the most curious ones away from the yellow tape, this was an entirely new thing. No one has ever wondered if they could get in a crime scene and examine the corpse. She grabbed her walkie-talkie and called the DI in charge. "Sir, there's someone here outside and I think you should be the one to handle him." The sergeant put the gadget back on its place and waited for her boss to come down.

"Yes Donovan, what is it?" John saw a grey-hair man coming in their direction. In his forties, the inspector was quite charming. For a woman, of course.

"This man wants to get in the crime scene."

"The media already found about this?!"

"No, he wants to examine the body."

The DI hesitated before replying, not trusting what his ears had listened. "He what?"

"I had the same reaction as you."

"_Move slowly in direction of the crime scene. They are distracted now."_

"I think I didn't tell you to come back."

"_Well, I think you're in a bad position right now to be complaining about it." _John tilted his head and nodded. He walked to the yellow tape and slid under it. He was just about to reach the gate of the house when a forensic man dressed with a blue vestment blocked his path.

"What are you doing here? Who are you?"

"_For God's sake! People are so repetitive! The same questions over and over again. Don't they get tired of it?"_

"Hmm… Nobody?"

"_Look at him. Seriously, look at him. Probably he still plays with his dinosaurs…" _But of course, a disgrace never comes alone and the woman of the curly hair and her boss became part of the discussion too. They tried to shove John away, threatening they would arrest him and said a couple more of empty threats. He was just about to do what they were ordering him to, when Sherlock grasped his shoulder. _"Ask the forensic one if his wife is gonna stay away for long."_

"What?"

"_Just do as I say."_

"Excuse me, is your wife away for long?"

"Who told you that?" The police group turned their heads in direction of John, who stood there awkwardly while Sherlock tried to deduce some more things that would surprise the people in front of him. That way, he could make the DI consider his help valuable (when he says 'his'…).

"_His deodorant told me that."_

"His deodorant?" John exclaimed and the rest of the officers outside got around the trio.

"My deodorant?" The forensic guy seemed truly confused by that confession. 'Poor bloke, sorry 'bout this'.

"_It's for men."_

"It's for men?" John wasn't able to make an assertion. Since this all ordeal began he found it very difficult to say anything without sounding a question. He wasn't doubting Sherlock's deductions, he soon learned that he shouldn't make that mistake. John ended up discovering the name of the forensic, Anderson.

"Well, of course it is for men! I'm wearing it!"

"_So is Sergeant Donovan." _

"So is Sergeant Donovan…" Anderson spoon around to see a very baffled colleague with her mouth hanging open too. Both of them were shocked with what John said. Although it wasn't correct, DI Lestrade was very close to losing his composure.

Sherlock sniffed the air and heckled. _"I think it just vaporized. May I go in?" _He was getting very annoyed, very fast. The small man was about to tell his flatmate they should give up and return home when the inspector highlighted from the rest of the people and made some questions.

"This freaking thing you did here…"

"_It's called deductions, you moron."_

"Can you do it with dead bodies?"

"_Obviously."_

"I think so… I could try if you guys let me in. Five minutes is enough."

"I can give you two."

"_I might need longer."_

"That's just perfect." The DI and Sherlock strode to the house while John limped behind them. Lestrade filled him with some procedures regarding the corpse and gave him some details as the name of the victim, who found her and other minor information. Both of them dressed one of those blue vestments as Anderson had and entered the room. After a month since he came back from war, John felt his throat lump with the sight of the dead woman on the floor. He gripped his cane and joined Sherlock, who was checking her shock-pink coat. The tall man told the smaller one multiple times to check some accessories so the DI wouldn't get suspicious and wonder if something was wrong with John. It was working just fine, until the dark-haired man raised a debate.

"_Tell him to shut up."_

"He didn't say anything."

"_He's thinking. It's annoying."_

"Everything alright?" Greg saw John whispering alone and became curious.

"Yeah, yeah."

"Got anything?"

"_Not much." _Sherlock gave a half smile, clearly ready to show off. He took his mobile out of his coat pocket and searched the weather site. In that moment, Anderson leaned on the door frame and affirmed that the pink lady was German. John was sad that he was the only one who could see Sherlock's face now. The man had barely met the forensic ten minutes ago and he despised him as he never had anyone. _"John, would you mind if I close the door at the dinosaur's face?"_

"I think it wouldn't make any difference."

"_World's cruel."_

"She's German?" God, they almost forgot Lestrade was still there.

"_Of course she's not. She's from out of town though. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious. Perhaps you should tell him, John."_

"No, but she's not a Londoner. She was going to stay here for a night before returning to Cardiff."

"What about the message?"

"_Victim's in her late thirties. Professional person going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night, obvious from the size of her suitcase."_

"Slow down, Sherlock."

"Dr Watson, what do you have for me?"

"She's in her late thirties… Hmm… She's also a journalist… And there's this suitcase?"

"Suitcase?"

"_Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."_

"Yeah. She had lots of lovers and none of them knew she had a husband."

"Oh for God's sake! If you're just making this up!..."

"_Her wedding ring! Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery's been regularly clean but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage, right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside - that means it is regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands. So what or rather who does she removes her ring for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain a fiction of being single for that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple." _

"Brilliant!"

"What?"

"Sorry. She was not happily married, as you can check if you observe the wedding ring. It's shinier in the inside than in the outside. And then he said something about a string of lovers?"

"He?"

"Me. I said me." John began to sweat, and his cheeks soon began to flush and turn red.

"Cardiff?"

"_It's obvious, isn't it?"_

"It's not obvious for me, Sherlock."

"_Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."_

"Focus."

"_Her coat. It's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours and no rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too, she's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time: Cardiff."_

"Fantastic!"

"_Do you know you do that out loud?"_

"I'll stop complimenting you then." John cleared his throat and gave his best to remember most of the things Sherlock shot at him. "She's been in heavy rain for two or three hours and there was strong wind too, as we can see if we observe her umbrella – it's dry. We know she was going to stay in town because of the suitcase. The only place where has there been strong wind and heavy rain within a radius of that travel time is Cardiff."

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?"

"_Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer… Find out who Rachel is."_

"Yes, could you tell me where it is? There must be a mobile phone or a diary. Oh! And find out who Rachel is!"

"She was writing 'Rachel'?"

Sherlock went over to Lestrade and threw one of his sarcastic comments, making John instinctively flinch. _"No, she was leaving an angry note in German. Of course she was writing 'Rachel'! No other word it can be. Now, the question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"_

"It would seem so."

"So how do you know she had a suitcase?"

"_Back of the right leg. Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"_

"Splash marks."

"_I told you all of that and you just say 'splash marks'?" _He actually sounded offended.

The DI rubbed his hair and looked in incredulity at John. "Splash marks. You sure?"

"Yes."

"_Suitcase… Where is it?"_

"Where did you put it?"

"Put what?" Lestrade eyed puzzled at the small man whose deductions seemed even more complex that he previously thought. That was impressive. If his own team could have half of the talent this man has…

"_Your brain." _John kicked his friend's ankle and made him clamour, sulking immediately.

"The case."

"There wasn't a case."

Sherlock froze, still grabbing his aching ankle. Oh boy, the fun had just started. _"Say that again."_

Seeing John clearly excited by that little detail (mostly because the dark-haired man was having the same reaction), the DI repeated what he had previously said. "There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase." Sherlock walked through the two men and screamed at anyone who passed in front of him if anyone had found a suitcase. Sometimes he would forget no one could listen to him, so John asked the same questions, receiving another negative response from Lestrade.

"_They take the poison themselves. They chew, swallow the pills themselves! There are clear signs and even you lot couldn't miss them! It's murder. All of them, I don't know how. They are not suicides, they're killings, serial killings." _He clapped his hands with joy. _"We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those, there's always something to look forward to." _John climbed down the stairs after Sherlock, informing Lestrade that they were searching for a serial killer.

"Why are you saying that?" He looked up to see the inspector still on the top of the staircase.

"_Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case." Sherlock teed off on rambling for himself and then something must have made a click on his mind, because he suddenly clapped his hands again._

"Sherlock?"

"_Serial killers are always hard, you have to wait for them to make a mistake."_

"We can't just wait."

"_We're done waiting. Look at her! Really, look! Houston, we have a mistake! Tell Lestrade to get on to Cardiff and find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. And to find Rachel!" John told the DI everything Sherlock ordered him to the fastest he could, sometimes choking on some words._

"Of course, yes, but what mistake?!"

"_Pink!" _With that, the duo ran out of the door. The game is on…


	3. Too Much Indeed

**Hello! I'm so sorry for the delay, I truly am. The exams already started and I'm a feeling a little bit overwhelmed with work and exams, something that isn't very common actually... Anyway, as you already noticed, don't expect regular updates and especially anytime sooner. I'm also ashamed of posting such a ridiculous short chapter, but I really wanted to post something so... Enjoy? I should probably say that this chapter is a bit different from the others too... **

**Disclaimer: One day, I'll go London and force Moffat and Gatiss to give me Sherlock, even if only for one minute... **

"Of course, yes, but what mistake?!"

"_Pink!"_

* * *

><p>"So, what exactly am I actually looking for?"<p>

"_Something pink."_

"It's dark, Sherlock. Everything here seems black." John's head cropped out from the large trash bin with a banana peel on the top of his blonde hair. Disgusted, he grabbed the dark brown peel with his fingertips and threw it on Sherlock's direction. The slender man dodged the flying peel and approached the waste bin with a small smirk on his face. "It would be helpful if you moved your ass and gave me a little hand."

"_You know I can't. The only thing I could do is give you a hint." _John stopped rummaging on the garbage and eyed Sherlock.

"Give me… a hint? A hint?!"

"_Didn't you hear me?"_

"All this time you knew where the fucking suitcase was, and you didn't tell me?!" John began to shout.

"_Well, not all the time, but for quite a while."_

"Are you kidding me?!"

"_I don't play on service."_

"You bastard! You made me get into a fucking trash bin!"

"_Shh!"_

"Look at me! I'm covered in dirt!"

"_Shush! Keep your voice down!"_

"I'm wearing good clothes! The only ones I have!" The blonde man began throwing objects and food on Sherlock's direction again, this time aiming for the head. He knew that it wouldn't hurt his ghost friend, but seeing it pass through his spectral form gave him a strange sense of assuagement.

"_John, you better keep your voice down. There are people out there and if they find you screaming alone, yo-"_

"I'll be send to a madhouse again! Yes, yes, I know!" Still, it didn't stop him from ceasing his pitching of cans, cores and anything else his hand would catch. It was, until something bit his fingers and made him scream with pain. Sherlock looked around and saw a light being turned on in one of the apartments close to them.

"_Oh, great job. Now someone's coming."_

"Do you think I care?!"

"_I would if I were you."_

"Shut up!"

"_No, you shut up!"_ John couldn't help but laugh. Sherlock's face was priceless when he told him to close his mouth. He's such a drama queen…

"Are you alright, sir?" The duo turned their heads and looked at an aged lady, with an old dressing gown and a pair of old slippers too. "I thought there was a fight in here."

"_Yes, John. Are you alright?" _Sherlock gave him a wicked smile, his arms crossed over his chest. John chose to ignore him, giving a small smile to the woman in front of him.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine. Better impossible."

"Good to hear." The old woman joined her hands and began to look from the corner of the eye. John was ready to make his way home when Sherlock grabbed his arm and told him to stay where he was. John gave him a quizzical look but said nothing. The brunet got closer to the small blonde woman and studied her. John could tell his friend was slightly interested on the old lady, now the reason why remained unknown.

"_Ask her who is she looking for."_

"Sorry, are you looking for someone?" The woman faltered and blinked at John.

"No, no." She kept repeating the word, as if it was a mantra.

"_Repeat the question."_

"Please, could you tell me who are you looking for?" The woman sighted and walked towards John. Her face, till now impossible to observe carefully due to the dark of the night, became much clear, still hard to observe properly, but a lot easier. Sherlock stood behind John now, expecting him to remember who this blonde woman was. For the amount of time he stared at the old lady, Sherlock conclude that his flatmate did not recognize her. However, he knew she knew who John was.

"I'm not looking for anyone, dear."

"Well then, I'm sorry I woke you up." Instead of replying, she put a hand on his face. John tensed, still he didn't move. The entire situation was far too familiar.

"_Come on, use the grey matter you still have, I hope."_

"Do you still remember me? It's been eight years since I last saw you." Sherlock could almost hear a click coming from John's mind. _'Thirteen seconds. Not bad.'_

"Mrs. Hudson?" The woman nodded happily, tears threatening to fall any time and jumped into the arms of the young man. Between tears, happy smiles and comfort whispers, the two broke the non-finishing hug and cleaned their faces. It had been a long time indeed. Sherlock sneaked stilly and paced slowly until he reached the further trash bin. He peered inside and found the pink suitcase. All he had to do now was waiting for John and they could go home. He gave a peep at the two people far away from him and sighted. How long could it take for some people who don't see each other for almost ten years to make their ordinary 'How have you been?' and 'I missed you so much!'? Apparently, a lot.

Despite the cold, John and Mrs. Hudson kept talking and talking. The old lady was asking him to visit her tomorrow when she noticed that John wasn't really paying attention. In matter fact, he was behaving like this from a couple minutes on. "John, dear, are you alright?" He gave no answer whatsoever. His eyes moved to the left and then to the right repeatedly. Her smile dropped when she remembered why he was asking her if she was looking for someone previously. She was, in a way, and the reason she was doing it at the time was the same reason as right now – John was searching for Sherlock. "You still see him, don't you?"

Apparently, that snapped John to reality and he focused on the woman in front of him. "Sorry?"

"Sherlock. You still see him." Mrs. Hudson broke the eye contact and bent her head. She didn't want John to see her crying not-so-happy tears. This was supposed to be a good moment. She was talking to John, who she wasn't able to speak to in a long time, and was actually enjoying spending some time with him. What she wasn't expecting was John still having his 'problem', a problem she never considered a problem, but something that wouldn't allow John to get on with his life. She also didn't expect him to say the truth and not denying it.

"Yes." When the old woman showed no intention to start talking again, John made his mind and began to do so. "Hmm… We… I... Man, this is hard." John pinched his nose and closed his eyes. "After that day, as you know, nobody was able to reach me, so Mycroft forced me to get professional help."

"By sending you to a mental hospital!" Mrs. Hudson sounded so hurt and indignant…

"I'm not saying I agreed with him, 'cause I never did. Anyway, sooner or later they allowed me to leave after making sure I'd take all the pills I was supposed to and blah blah blah. Afterwards, I was accepted in the army."

"They allowed you? I thought they did a lot of physical and psychological exams for one to get in." Perceiving what Mrs. Hudson meant with 'psychological', he kept telling his story.

"They did. I think that someone very powerful on the government had a hand on that. Back where I was, I went to the army and I spend six years there. Everything was alright until I was shot and they sent me home."

"Shot?!" Mrs. Hudson put her right hand over her mouth and more tears rolled down her cheeks. John felt a lump forming on his throat.

"Oh, Mrs. H. Stop that or you'll make me cry too…" The woman immediately stopped.

"I'm sorry… That's all so sad… But I still don't get it. If you got off the hospital and you were taking the pills, why do you keep seeing him?" She faced the blonde man she used to know so well and saw him turning his face away. "You're not taking the pills anymore, are you?" The response was unceremonious.

"No."

They stayed in silence in what seemed forever. The wind was getting stronger as the time was passing and no one seemed to mind that. John was just about to get up and take Mrs. Hudson home when he noticed the dark-haired man getting closer to them. Sherlock gave him a nod as he understood everything that had happened in there while he wasn't present. John smiled.

"Are you happy John?"

"What do you mean?" He had his chin on the top of the old lady's head now and his arms around her, both whispering without any apparent reason.

"Are you happy with him, seeing him every day, even though he'll never be the Sherlock you expect him to be one day?"

John didn't answer. Instead, he looked up to see a tall silhouette in front of him, his hands on the pockets of the ridiculously expensive coat, small breaths escaping from his lips. Was he happy? John turned his head upwards and contemplated the stars.

Yeah, he was happy.


	4. Meeting the Big Brother

**The usual. I'm sorry and blah blah blah. Short chapter again. Sorry.**

**I have to say thank you to everyone who's following the story and who favorite because everytime I received a notification saying that someone else is following the story, a smile was plastered on my face. And I rarely smile so broadly. :) So, don't forget to keep doing it ok? Oh, and please review, so I know what would you like to happen, or just to give good criticism.  
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**Enjoy?**

**Disclaimer: Congratulations to Benedict Cumberbatch for his engagement! I think he should give me Sherlock, since he broke my heart...**

"Are you happy with him, seeing him every day, even though he'll never be the Sherlock you expect him to be one day?"

Yeah, he was happy.

* * *

><p>"<em>You know you didn't give her an answer."<em>

"Sorry?"

John and Sherlock were walking their way home, well, home for a short period of time. After their unexpected meeting, Mrs. Hudson told John that she was still trying to find a tenant and who better than the man she knew to be so sweet and kind-hearted? They agreed to meet each other the next day afternoon, after John's job interview. Ella would be pleased.

"_An answer. If you're happy or not."_

"Why would you care? You never cared about this sort of things."

"_And I don't. Just… curious perhaps."_

"Curious about sentiment? That's new."

"_Oh, don't act so surprised, you know a great mind like mine sometimes need new information to… Hum…"_

"Renew?"

"_I'm looking for another word but that one shall suffice."_

The duo kept walking, the people on the streets shortening as the evening became night. Although Sherlock didn't receive an answer from John, he didn't mind, he could see clearly the answer just by observing his body language. When a kid, he soon learned that people would fill their minds with all sort of rubbish and he was completely against it. What would be the purpose of occupying it with stuff that wouldn't be helpful in the future? If he was in the middle of a robbery, would it help him knowing that the Sun goes around the Earth?

"The Earth around the Sun, not the Sun around the Earth."

"_I said it out loud?"_

"You usually do, but you say it so fast that most of the times I can't distinguish a word."

"_I never noticed that."_

"I never replied before."

"_True."_

John and Sherlock went silent again, each of them absorbed on their own thoughts. They were a couple of streets away from the small flat when John facepalmed. "Oh no."

"_What?"_

"I forgot to do the shopping. I've an appointment with Ella tomorrow morning, the job interview and the meeting with Mrs. Hudson. I have no time to do the shopping tomorrow and I have no food in the flat."

"_That's funny."_

"Where is that funny?!" John turned around and shot a stern look at Sherlock. The brunet really had no timing, had he?

"_I wasn't talking about the shopping. I just remembered I forgot the suitcase on the garbage. How unusual of me."_

"Great! Can this be any worse?" John threw his arms in the air. He then proceeded to kick some cans on the way, scolding under his breath. He knew that some people were looking at him, but he didn't care. Most of them were too drunk to be on their feet, and the others who weren't were probably thinking that he was one of the drunken.

"_John-"_

"I'm not going back to grab the freaking suitcase. You solve the case with the information you collected on the crime scene."

"_John, I think you shou-"_

"Sherlock, no suitcase tonight! Why don't you go to your mind castle or whatever you call it!"

"_Mind palace, but that's not what I me-"_

"What then?!"

Sherlock halted, utterly bored and annoyed with John. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head slightly. He stood like that for a minute or two until John took a breath in and out, relaxing a bit. Sherlock looked around and faced John once more.

"_Can I say a full sentence without you interrupting me?"_

"Yes."

"_Thank you. There's a black car following us since the first turn we took on the first street we crossed on our way to the flat." _Sherlock had already given seven steps when John awoke from the shock and ran to catch his friend.

"Say what?"

"_What."_

"This is not funny Sherlock!"

"_You have to admit it was."_

"You said there was a car. Where's the car?"

"_Following us."_

"And where is it?"

"_On your left."_

The black car stopped and a young woman got off of the said car. Without taking her eyes from the mobile phone, she called out for John and told him to get in. John eyed Sherlock, who made no question to move towards the car. Observing the woman, the short man understood immediately she wasn't the one in control, but rather someone else. Who held such power to send a woman and armed men inside a black car and could be remotely interested on an invalidated soldier recently home? "Of course!"

"_Let's pray to God it isn't him."_

"You don't believe in a higher power besides yourself."

"_I'll start believing if it's not him."_

John and Sherlock got on the car. The woman was already inside, sitting next to the window. John sat next to her and Sherlock next to him. She took her eyes, for the first time, of the mobile screen and gave John a quizzical look. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting."

"Let me rephrase that. Why are you on that spot? There's plenty of space over there." She pointed at where Sherlock was sitting. John turned to look at Sherlock.

"_I hope you're not thinking of sitting on my legs."_

"You just have to sit on my spot and I sit on yours."

"_I don't think so. Too much human contact."_

"Unfasten your seatbelt Sherlock!"

"_No."_

"Now!"

"_No!"_

"If you have to, you may stay where you are Dr Watson." John tried one more time to convince Sherlock to change of spot, receiving a negative answer. John straightened up and fastened his seatbelt. The car engine roared and they saw London passing by. It was a beautiful night indeed. John found himself contemplating the stars for the second time that night. During his stay on Afghanistan, he barely had time to sleep, much less to admire the stars. Throughout the car travel, John tried to speak to the woman, though everything he found about her was her (false?) name, Anthea. He was just about to ask her out when he heard Sherlock buffing.

"_Apparently it's not today that I'm going to start believing in God." _Sherlock unfastened his seatbelt and got out the car. John followed him, closing the door. Twenty feet ahead, he saw a tall man with an expensive umbrella on hand. Sherlock huffed once more and strode beside John. The well-looking man pointed at the chair in front of him.

"Have a seat John."

"You know, I've got a phone. You could just phone me. On my phone."

"_I think he got the idea John."_

"Yes, well… Where's fun on that?"

"Where's the fun on kidnapping people?"

"Good to see you John."

"I think in a way a feel the same Mycroft." The two men shook their hands, a slight smile on Mycroft's face. "So… You gave up on kidnapping people with wheelbarrows."

Mycroft and Sherlock laughed at the memory, though when seeing his brother doing the same, Sherlock got silent. Mycroft also stopped almost immediately, as there was no way somebody could watch him losing control over something as meaningless as an old memory.

"We're not on primary school anymore, are we?"

"No, we aren't."

"I hope you're enjoying being back in London. What do you think about the flat?"

"Why do you two keep asking questions to which you already know the answer?"

"Two?"

John hesitated. For the second time that night, he couldn't control his tongue. Was it so hard? "Well, you know. You and he kept questioning things when you already knew what people would say."

"_Give up John."_

"Yeah."

They stood like that, in an awkward silence for what it seemed like hours, no one taking the eyes out of each other. John was thinking that Mycroft was going to send him back to the Bethlem Royal when he heard another huff, this time not coming from Sherlock but from Mycroft.

"I don't know what to do John. I sent you to a hospital for you to recover. You only got out because you promised that you would take the pills. Now, I find out that you are not fulfilling with what you promised. What do you expect me to do?"

John opened his mouth, but no words came out. He knew he made a promise but he was forced to! He didn't want to. He just wanted for everyone to let him be, to stop hovering over his head. Of course he'd say he promised. Who wouldn't after spending months between four walls, 24/7?

"Nothing. You don't have to do anything."

"By not keeping your promise, I can't keep mine."

"_What promise?"_

"What promise?"

Mycroft sighed and slue his umbrella around. "That I would look after you."

Both John and Sherlock were baffled. In less than ten words, Mycroft showed that he cared more than what he let people see. Only a selected group of people were fortunate enough to hear the great Mycroft Holmes talking to them without trying to destroy a country or start a war. Now, finding out that he was one of those fortunate people… It was something different. Although they knew each other and they'd have some chitchat, it never happened anything besides that. He would always be Sherlock's friend. Not John, Sherlock's friend.

"_What about the 'caring is not an advantage' thing? It was probably his motto."_

"I'm moved, I think."

"There's no reason for such." Mycroft twirled his umbrella and made his way to another car behind him. John gave a step forwards and shout.

"So what now?"

Mycroft brought the umbrella closer to his face, inspecting the tip of it. He breathed in and resumed his walk. "What now indeed."

**Would you like me to write down the songs I hear while writing a chapter? There are writers who do it and I quite like that...**


	5. Memories from the Past

**I did it again, didn't I?...**

**So, new and completely different chapter (with this I mean this chapter has nothing to do with the previous ones). Thanks for jenn008, who favorited this story on my birthday and totally made my day! Here's the chapter!  
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**Don't forget to review and favorite and bla bla bla...  
><strong>

**Enjoy?**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I had already read the new script, which I didn't!**

_25 years ago…_

"Harry! Harry! Harry! Let's go! C'mon! You promised!" Ten-year-old John knocked on his sister's bedroom door. The previous day, his big sister promised little John a walk on the park after 'accidentally' destroying his tin soldiers' battle scene. Luckily, their mother caught Harry in the act, so she had to redeem herself somehow… A trip to the park then.

The young girl and her little brother walked hand with hand. Not that far away, they could see a beautiful park with high trees and vivid green grass. John let go of his sister's hand and ran in direction of the big field. He took the ball he received on his birthday two weeks ago from the bag he carried on his back and kicked it far away, smiling as he saw the ball flying further and further away. He started running as he tried to catch the falling ball but, apparently, he kicked the ball with too much force, because he didn't get to catch it. John stopped when he heard a small cry from behind a tree. He walked around it to find a small boy with both hands on his head sat on the grass.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you with my ball. Here, let me help you." John reached out his right hand and the other boy willingly accepted it. "I'm John, by the way. I'm truly sorry we've met like this. Are you ok?" The dark curly haired boy simply nodded. "Do you have a name?" The little boy tilted his head to one side and looked at John with the are-you-kidding-me expression. John found it hilarious for such a small child giving him such a look. "I know you have a name. I just wanted to hear it." Still no answer. It suddenly hit him. John got closer to the kid and whispered on his ear. "Are you dumb?"

"No!"

"You can talk!"

"Of course I can talk!"

"I healed you!

The dark-haired boy hesitated and a confusion look replaced his previous indignant one. "You what?"

With a bigger smile on his face, John threw his arms in the air. "I healed you! I cured you! You were mute and now you're not!"

"I was never mute."

Both John's arms and smile dropped. "You weren't?" The little boy simply shook his head. Disappointed, John walked to the bench under the tree and slumped on it. Seeing the nice blonde kid out of the blue very sad, the small child sat next to him and stared right ahead. After a couple of minutes in silence, he spoke again.

"You know… Despite you being sad because I'm not mute, which is weird, we can pretend I was in fact mute and you cured me."

John turned around to see the small boy with a small smile directed at him. "You mean… We pretend I healed you?

"I believe that's what I said."

John was completely baffled. "Really?"

"Do I have to repeat everything? 'Cause that's incredib-" John closed the space between the two of them and embraced the younger boy tightly. Awkwardly, the small boy hugged back, totally out of his element. "Humm… John? I can't breathe." Joh immediately let go the little boy, blushing slightly.

"Sorry about that. So… Starting from the beginning. I'm John, again. What's your name?"

"Sherlock."

"That's a pretty cool name." A pause. "Is that actually a name?"

Sherlock huffed while rolling his eyes and got up, grabbing some books that were on the grass. He put them under his armpit and walked away. John quickly went after him. Without looking at the older boy, Sherlock continued the previous conversation. "You're ten years old, you're supposed to know if something is a name or not."

"How do you I'm ten? I could be nine – or even eight – years old."

"But you clearly aren't."

"Offense non-taken, but you still didn't give me an answer."

Sherlock stopped on his tracks and pulled John's sleeve twice. The older boy bent down and Sherlock whispered to him. "I know it because I'm a seer." A smug smirk was plastered on Sherlock's face as he saw the blonde perplexed, since he probably assumed that Sherlock was a real seer as he admitted. Wrong.

"What's a seer?" Now it was Sherlock's turn to be perplexed.

"A clairvoyant."

"Aclawhat?"

"A dowser."

"A what?"

"A soothsayer… A predictor… Someone who sees the future and knows everything about someone's life."

"Oh, that!"

"Do you go to school?"

* * *

><p><em>Three days later…<em>

"Mycroft! Open the door right now!" Sherlock was just about to bang at the door with his closed fist once again when said teenager opened the door.

"Yes, brother dear? What could you possibly want from me at four thirty-two PM of a sunny Sunday? Ha! Sunny Sunday… Hilarious."

"Yes, very amusing. Now, where is he?"

"Where's who?"

"Oh, let me think." Sherlock placed his fingers under his chin and pretended to be thinking hard. "I think Doctor Who."

Mycroft leaned further on the door frame and furrowed his brows. "If you mean on TV, then he's most likely in the TARDIS. Now, if you mean in real life, the-"

"John, Mycroft! Where's John?!"

"Which John? John Lennon? Under the ground, dead and buried; John F. Kennedy? Also dead, a bullet in the head; John Tyndall? Dead! God, I only know dead Johns. Let me see… John W. Geary, dead; John Quincy Adams, dead. John Willard Marriott!"

"He died two months ago."

"Damn it."

"John Watson."

"Yes! That one is not dead! I'm sure of it!"

"Well, I'm not 'cause you kidnapped him!"

"Oi, watch your tongue. Do you have any evidence?"

"I'm not playing detectives, Mycroft. Where's John? What have you done with him?"

"You cannot incriminate me without evidence. I'll call my lawyer." Mycroft pushed Sherlock aside and went downstairs. He sat on the brand new divan his mother bought last week and grabbed the landline from the coffee table next to him. Sherlock quickly joined him and tried to take the phone away from his brother. "Sherlock, stop! You accused me and now you have to deal with my amazing lawyer, aka Father."

"Don't call him! Just tell me where John is!"

"_Hello?"_

"Dad! Hello!" Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock's face as he tried to punch the arm holding the landline. "Guess who has started interrupting my studies again due to a missing friend."

"_Mycroft, your mum and I are busy at the moment. Do you have anything urgent to say?"_

"Just tell him to leave me alone an- Ouch! He bit me! Did you hear me?! He bit me! My arm! I think the bite reached my cephalic vein! It looks like I've been bitten by a vampire! I only have the mark of the mesial and distal canines! Take him to a dentist!"

"_Mycroft, I did not distinguish a single word of what you said."_

"He. Bit. Me. And right now he's threatening me with mum's favouri- Sherlock put that down right now! Don't you dare! I'm warning you, if you don't put that thing back on the shelf, I'll…"

Crash!

"_What was that sound?"_

"How much longer are you going to stay in Ipswich?"

"_We'll be back home in two days. Can you handle Sherlock for two more days?"_

"I don't know, he just kee- Sherlock! Get out of the vent! How did you get there?"

"_Pass me."_

Mycroft took Sherlock out of the vent with much effort and managed to make him talk with their father. "Hi dad."

"_Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"_

"Mycroft kidnapped John!"

"_Who's John?" _Sherlock heard a female's voice talking to his father. His mother. She was questioning who John was too.

"That's not the question. Mycroft kidnapped John and he doesn't tell me where John is!"

"_How do you know Mycroft 'kidnapped' him?"_

"The wheelbarrow isn't in the garden! There, Mycroft, happy? Evidence." Sherlock put the tongue out and mopped and mowed at his brother, who simply shrugged and sighed. "And we both know what it means, don't we?"

"_The stupid neighbour took it again. I'm so fed up with him!" _Apparently, it seemed that Mycroft overheard what his father said, because he shot a mischievous smile at Sherlock and crossed his arms on his chest. Not wanting to lose for his brother, Sherlock kept on talking with his father still on the phone.

"No, no, no! We both know it means that Mycroft-"

"_-will have to ring Mr Patterson's bell and demand for my wheelbarrow! Call Mycroft."_

"No, dad, that's not it! He took John! He stole John!"

"_It's impossible to steal someone, Sherlock."_

"You know what I meant!"

"_Your mother is giving me 'the look'. I have to hang up. See you in two days son!"_

"No, wait! Dad!"

"_Your mum sends kisses!" _

Sherlock puts the landline back on the coffee table and straightens up his woollen coat. He moves closer to Mycroft and looks at him right in the eyes. They stay like that, flames in the eyes of both of them until Sherlock spits on his brother's shoes. He turns around and walks to his bedroom. Before closing the door, he shouts at Mycroft. "John better be back by tomorrow afternoon. We're playing pirates."

* * *

><p><em>Eight years later…<em>

"Sherlock, it's for you!" Sherlock got up on his feet when he heard his mother downstairs, throwing some newspapers under the bed and leaving the bedroom. "Sherlock, hurry up!" He starts running down the stairs and somehow, he trips on his own feet, ending up with head on the floor and his legs on the wall in front of the staircase. As Mr Holmes saw his youngest child in such situation, he covers his mouth in a vain attempt to supress a laugh. Mrs Holmes joins him, though she tries to aid his son. After he's already steady, she handles him the phone. "It's John."

Sherlock takes the landline brusquely from the hands of his mother, facing the other way. "Hello?"

"_You fell down the stairs! Ha-ha! I wish I had been there to take a picture!"_

"Very funny, John. What do you want?"

"_Jesus, we're in a bad mood today, aren't we?"_

"Main topic. Focus."

"_Rude."_

"John!"

"_Alright, alright. The prom."_

"What about it?"

"_Are you coming?" _

"I don't know, John… That's not really my area."

"_Do you think it's mine?"_

"No way."

"_Well then, there's the answer! I'll be there by seven."_

"John, I'm not coming, did you hear?"

"_See you very soon, 'Lockie'!"_

"John!" John hanged up and Sherlock simply stared at the landline. Behind him, his mother clasps her hands together while her husband hugs embraces her from behind. With a huge grin on both faces, Sherlock's parents move closer to him and they squeeze his cheeks.

"My big boy is going to his first prom!"

"I'm not going anywhere, mum. Forget it." Sherlock turns to leave but his mother grabs his arm and pulls him closer to a tight hug. "Mum! Let me go!"

"Only if you promise you'll go to the prom."

Sherlock buffs. "No."

"I'll show you Mycroft's prom photos."

"Deal."


	6. The Pink Lady's Pink Suitcase

**The usual. **

**Good news: school's over, so more time to think about the story. Luckily, I won't have a writer's block - I had a huge one these past weeks. I really tried my best though. Once again, it's pretty short. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited and started following the story! **

**Disclaimer: If Santa gives me Sherlock on Christmas, I swear I'll start socializing more. My mum's always complaining about it. A Christmas gift for both of us!**

"So what now?"

Mycroft brought the umbrella closer to his face, inspecting the tip of it. He breathed in and resumed his walk. "What now indeed."

* * *

><p>"<em>Where are we going?" <em>John and Sherlock traipsed side by side on the empty streets of London. After ten minutes of walking and pure silence (a very welcome one, in John's opinion), Sherlock finally spoke, and John had to answer.

"Where do you think? Home."

"_Despite your incorrect application of the term 'home', which I'm promptly ignoring – have you actually observed the state of that flat? – yes, I'm asking you where we are going, because 'home' is not a reasonable answer." _To emphasize his disapproval of the use of the word 'home', Sherlock made quotations marks with his fingers and rolled his eyes. John just huffed. _"Don't you huff on me. You know I'm right."_

"I know you are, and that's why we are moving to 221B tomor… This afternoon." John squinted his eyes when a strong light appeared from the corner. A taxi. "Taxi!"

"_I thought you were first meeting her and only then we'd move to 221B." _Sherlock and John got in the cab and John gave the cabbie the address. Trying not to draw too much attention to himself, John started whispering.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"_Rude." _

* * *

><p>John woke up at the sound of a snap. It took him a couple of seconds to fully wake up and understand that it had been his neck making that sound. After getting rid of the dull ache (who said being a doctor didn't have its advantages?), he managed to take a proper look of his surroundings. He was on his flat, on his bed, with his favourite mug right next to him on the nightstand. John noticed a thin vapour trail escaping from the bright-yellow mug - tea just made. John wondered if he had started sleepwalking again because last time it didn't end very well, and he really didn't want that to happen again. He threw off the covers and put his slippers on and as he was moving towards the kitchen, John tripped over a large object, falling over the old carpet covering the even older floor. Cursing loudly, he got up and turned around to see a big pink suitcase, partially under the bed. That was definitely not the way John wanted the day to start.<p>

"Sherlock!"

"_Too loud, John. Too loud."_

"What the hell is this?!"

"_May I ask what happened to the calm and sweet Doctor Watson? You're always shouting at me now."_

"I think I have pretty good reasons for that, don't you think?" John pointed at the case visible from under the bed and shot an angry glare at Sherlock. The last one just shrugged.

"_Although I love puzzles and riddles, good ones obviously, I'm feeling too lazy right now to try deciphering your body language and posture. Do you remember that book I gave you on your birthday? There are some chapters with very interesting information about big part of the human reactions and the way their bodies work when exposed to…" _Sherlock cut off his small speech when he saw John standing on the middle of the room with a grim expression. He looked down and sat at the top of the desk, playing with a forgotten apple, waiting for the 'lecture'. None came. John was on the floor, dragging out the suitcase from under the bed. Sherlock joined him and kneeled, opening the case.

"How did this get in here?"

"_Hum?"_

"The pink suitcase. How did it appear here? Last time, it was in the garbage, quite far from here. It's impossible I got up during the night, went there and dragged it here." A pause. "Someone broke in the flat!" John got on his feet and paced around, rubbing his hands on each other.

"_Calm down. I'm sure we'll find out who did this." _Sherlock also got up and tried to lead John to a chair. John only shook the younger man's hands away and raced to the windows, pulling the curtains open. _"You won't find him out there. He's long gone."_

"He? How do you know he is a he?"

"_Balance of probability. My brother would be proud."_

"But it could still be a woman."

"_Not so likely. This flat is on the last floor and there is no lift. The suitcase is clearly heavy and it's hard to drag it without the wheels. So, climbing up the stairs, with a heavy suitcase on hands and making no sound, most probably a man. Yes, it could be a woman, but no."_

"God… What about you? Didn't you hear anything?"

"_If I had, do you think we'd still be here?"_

"But you are Sherlock freaking Holmes! What were you doing so you didn't notice anyone coming in?!"

"_I'm a product of your imagination, John. You decide what I was doing."_

"Stop it, just stop it, ok?" John grabbed his coat and put it on. He walked towards the door and opened it, stepping outside.

"_What are you doing?"_

"I am going to ask neighbours if they heard something out of the common."

Sherlock gave a sarcastic laugh and walked next to John. _"And they're going to say yes, you know why? Because every day they hear a man recently home screaming at someone when alone at the flat."_

"Very funny, Sherlock. Very funny."

John locked the door and crossed the corridor, shortly followed by Sherlock. He knocked at the door of Mr Campbell, and after receiving no answer, he rang the bell. Sherlock huffed. _"Maybe he's not answering because he's sleeping, don't you think?"_

"Or maybe he went to the bakery down the street." Just as John said 'street', the door opened and the head of sleepy old man appeared. "Good morning, Mr Campbell."

"Good morning, Dr Watson. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I had a break in last night, and I was wondering if you heard anything unusual."

The old man only gave a sad look. "I'm sorry, young man, but I heard nothing. You see, I was sleeping."

"_Told you."_

"And there's no chance your wife heard anything too, isn't it?" Mr Campbell's eyes widened and he said nothing. Sherlock whistled and tried to hide a smile. John, not understanding what was wrong, faced the old man. "Have I said anything wrong?" Sherlock was now laughing.

"My… My wife is dead, Dr Watson. She has died a month ago. Unless she can hear anything from over there" He pointed up. ", I doubt she did notice anything different from the usual." Before being able to apologize, Mr Campbell had already closed the door and John stood there, gaping slightly.

"_Nicely done, Dr Watson. 10 points for lack of compassion."_

"And you are the role model, aren't you?"

"_We're not talking about me. Don't change the subject."_

"I'm so embarrassed…"

"_You better be."_

"Oh shut it." They walked downstairs and John knocked at the next neighbour's door. "Mrs Jones? It's Dr Watson…"

* * *

><p>"Fruitless. Every single bit. We got nothing."<p>

"_I wouldn't say that. Look at the monstrosity of biscuits they gave us. I've food for a whole year!"_

"You don't eat."

"_That's because it slows me down. However, it doesn't mean I don't like it. There are these biscuits that remember me of cigars and those biscuits with forest fruit tea… It's the paradise."_

"No." John stopped in front of Sherlock and shook his arms, thrusting the tall man. "You don't eat because you are not real."

"_If I stopped doing things due to my inexistence…" _Sherlock ceased talking.

"What?"

"_I was trying to think what would happen if I suddenly put an end to the way I act and what would be the consequences."_

"And?..."

Sherlock shot a small smile towards John. _"I got nothing. That would never happen."_

**I can't believe we got on 2nd place. Sherlock is the best TV show of 2014 and there is no one who'll make me change my mind.**


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